


it feels more like a song

by elithewho



Category: Babylon Berlin (TV)
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Light BDSM, Masturbation, Mystery, Panic Attacks, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Rough Sex, Sex Club, Sexual Tension, Undercover as a Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 12:45:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19441747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elithewho/pseuds/elithewho
Summary: “Just follow my lead, OK?”Gereon is compelled to follow Charlotte's lead on the heels of a case they're chasing, and it scares up feelings and desires he was trying so hard to keep hidden.





	it feels more like a song

**Author's Note:**

> Love and thanks to Morgan, as always, my beta and cheerleader and sun and stars :3
> 
> Title is from "Pull My Hair" by Bright Eyes

The outside of the club looked uncared-for, barely like a club at all. A gated stair led below street level, a red lamp flickering over the rusted iron door. The outline of a red horse in full gallop was barely visible in the dim light. 

“Gereon,” Charlotte muttered, at his elbow. “Are you entirely sure about this?” 

He nodded, brow furrowed. Why shouldn’t they be? Benno had spent a lot of time here, according to his driver. Not his parents, who had been leaning so hard on the police to discover who murdered their son, wept to reporters, coughed up mountains of cash. They had no idea their precious son would ever go to a place like this. 

“What’s the problem?” Gereon said, annoyed. They were wasting time, loitering on this dingy street and looking particularly suspicious. Charlotte had never been anxious about visiting seedy nightclubs before. 

Charlotte sighed deeply, looking perturbed. She fingered the collar of her blouse and then tugged free a few buttons. Gereon had to tear his eyes away. 

“I’m not dressed for a nightclub, are you?” she said pointedly. Gereon looked down at himself. In truth, he wouldn’t have chosen to wear something much different. Charlotte wore her trousers, crisp blouse and beetle green hat. She looked nice – she always looked nice. But perhaps not typical for a night out. 

It had been a split-second decision, both of the wallowing in the impenetrable investigation into the violent death of Benno von Brandt, Berlin golden boy. The tip off about this club, Roter Hengst, and Benno’s secret half-life came to them from his driver and apparent confidant. Gereon had been sick of treading water, wasting time talking to people who had never met the kid. And now Charlotte was acting spooked. 

From her purse, she pulled out a tube of lipstick and he watched her apply it, quick and practiced. Ruby red, glittering in the orange shimmer of the streetlamps. 

“Also,” she said, pausing to give him a significant look. “They changed the name. I didn’t recognize it.” 

Gereon blinked slowly at her before comprehending. “You’ve been here before?” 

“Used to visit sometimes,” she said evasively, not looking at him as she returned her lipstick to her purse. “Like I said, I didn’t recognize the new name.” 

His palms were itching. Anxious, unmoored. He wanted to be doing something. He turned towards the entrance and Charlotte grabbed his arm. 

“This isn’t Holländer,” she said. “It’s more... specialized.” 

Gereon probably should have taken a moment to really get what she meant by that. But he thought he knew. Specialized, well. They could pretend for a night. 

“Just follow my lead, OK?” Charlotte said, looping her arm in his and marching confidently towards the stairs. Downwards, like descending under the earth itself. 

The inside matched the outside’s moody décor. None of Holländer’s bright glitter, amber lights that illuminated every debauched secret, reveled in them. Roter Hengst was dark, low ceilings giving it a cave-like quality. They were relieved of their hats and coats and deeper into the bowels of the club they went. 

More dimness. The only light was the fierce full moon circle of a spotlight on the stage, startling brightness on the performer, a man in drag. A slinky black cocktail dress, black wig. He crooned French into the microphone, breathy syllables floating over the patrons, cocooned in blackness. There was no dancefloor, just little round tables, booths swathed in curtains for even more privacy. Each table was lit only by a tiny lamp, its meager light stifled further by maroon shades. 

It was all a particular damp, moody feeling that Gereon did not care for. No room for dancing at all; what was the point of the club anyway? As his eyes adjusted, the answer came sashaying by them. A woman in a man’s suit and top hat, leading another woman on a leash attached to a leather dog collar. The second woman wore next to nothing besides a garter belt and the collar. She caught Gereon’s eye and they pushed passed them. She smirked, rubbing the length of the chain suggestively. She’d rubbed something sparkly on her breasts. 

Gereon hoped the low light of the club would hide the flush in his cheeks. Something dark and intriguing twisted inside him. He pushed it away. That’s what he’d get for not listening to Charlotte. 

She hadn’t let go of his arm, holding him tight to her side as they made their way to the bar. She flagged down the bartender and ordered two schnapps. Gereon opened his mouth to protest – they were working after all – but Charlotte silenced him swiftly with a pinch at his side and a fierce look. Right. He was meant to be following her lead. Why did he agree to that? 

The bartender presented them with glasses and then leaned in closer, fixing Charlotte with an intense look. 

“Lotte? Is that you? Fuck, it’s been ages!” 

“Bastian!” Charlotte gushed and the two kissed cheeks awkwardly over the bar. 

Charlotte's arm was still tightly wrapped around his waist as Bastian made his way around the bar. Her hand snugly pressed into his side. It was still there as Bastian kissed her again, once on each cheek. 

"It's been ages, absolute ages. Where have you been?" 

"Here and there," she responded playfully. "This is Gereon." She pinched his side again. 

Gereon held out his hand for Bastian, taking in the fine, thin bones of his hands, his dark eyes and darker eyebrows in a thin pale face. His hair was combed so tightly back he might have used furniture polish to achieve that hard, glossy effect. 

"Come have a drink with us," Charlotte insisted and Bastian made a show of furtively glancing around the club before he nodded, a conspiratorial smirk on his face. 

The booths partitioned by black curtains would have been cozier, more private. More comfortable for Gereon, especially with how he was feeling. Hot under the collar, prickles of sweat in his armpits, his face threatening to betray his every thought. But to be so secreted away from the rest of the patrons would defeat the entire purpose. 

He allowed Charlotte to steer him to one of the small lamp-lit tables. Bastian joined them, serving himself a healthy shot of schnapps. They all lit a round of cigarettes as Bastian quizzed Charlotte on her activities since seeing her last. In the brief flash of light from his match, Gereon could see there were dark circles framing Bastian's eyes, his brow was creased and the sleeves of his burgundy dinner jacket were already far past threadbare. 

"We work at the same office," she told Bastian. Gereon nodded, complying with her every whim if it meant getting what they needed. 

"Oh, just an office? That's coy." 

"Don't be nosy," Charlotte replied primly, ashing her cigarette in the grimy, overfed ashtray. 

Bastian grinned wolfishly. "Does she get coffee for you? Take your calls?" 

"Sometimes," Gereon responded vaguely and Charlotte put her hand on his thigh. Possessively. He leaned back, trying to act natural. He put his arm around the back of Charlotte's chair, something casually intimate but not too intimate. Charlotte scooted closer, leaning her shoulder into his. 

Bastian was laughing, his cheeks hollowing out further with the action. "Typical," he said. "Lords of government and finance come here to get whipped and degraded." 

From the corner of his eye, Gereon could see the table next to them. A man in top hat and tails was leaning back, putting his feet up not on a foot stool as he had thought, but another man, crouching down in supplication. Gereon felt an odd punch in his gut, like the wind leaving his lungs. Bastian had followed his gaze and was giving him that wolfish grin again. 

"Careful," Charlotte muttered beside him. "He's shy." 

"Poor boy. Be gentle with him, Lotte." 

Gereon thought it best to remain silent. Expression neutral. He wasn't ignorant to any of this. He'd seen it all, in raids and on celluloid. His father, politicians, lords of government as Bastian had called them... It was different being a part of it. Being perceived as someone actively participating. It was different with Charlotte. She knew all about this. She had participated. 

The thought made his skin crawl. Or it should have. It did something to his skin, anyway. 

Bastian and Charlotte continued to chat like old war buddies. She was being deliberately vague about how she and Gereon were connected, which he appreciated. Bastian, though teasing lightly, did not seem to expect anything different. 

"You know, it's interesting that you showed when you did," Bastian said presently, examining the end of his slowly burning cigarette. 

"Oh really?" Charlotte muttered with distinct noninterest as Gereon inadvertently straightened his back. 

"You must have seen it in the papers," Bastian said, lowering his voice into a stage whisper. "Benno von Brandt. He used to come here." 

Charlotte played dumb admirably. "Benno... Benno... Oh, the boy they found in the river?" 

"More than a boy, but barely," Bastian conceded. 

"He came here?" Gereon said with all the fake surprise he could muster. "Von Brandt, the oil people?" 

"You wouldn't believe the blue-blooded children you can find in places like this," Bastian with a low snicker. 

"He had a little boy toy?" Charlotte said, her tone very light. 

"Oh no, he _was_ the boy toy. He had a master." 

Gereon concentrated on taking the most casual drag from a cigarette in his life. 

"Really? Who? Anyone I know?" Charlotte said but Bastian seemed to clam up immediately at the question. He slumped back, losing the conspirator pose of his elbows on the table, shoulders tensing up. 

"Someone, I don't know," he said, waving the question away. 

Charlotte's mouth opened and then closed again. Gereon could tell she was desperate to press further, but any more would make them both intensely suspicious. 

But then, he was leaning forward again, his browed very furrow, his tone almost inaudible over the music. "He isn't the only one to die either." 

"Oh?" Charlotte said, matching his posture with clear interest. Gereon too perked up. This, at least, would have been interesting to anyone. 

"There have been others, kids like Benno. But not nearly as rich, so I guess it didn't make the papers..." 

The tension that had accumulated in moments, pushing out like a bubble trying to escape, burst as Bastian choked on apparently nothing. A shadow fell across the table. 

"Shouldn't you be working, Bastian?" came a low voice, a figure looming over their table. The man was tall, very tall, face lost in shadow. He had a glowing cigar in one massive hand. It glinted like a burning eye. 

"Yes, yes, sorry, sir," Bastian said, up on his feet at once.

"Who's this, then?" The man seemed to have lost interest in Bastian entirely as his gaze fell on Charlotte and Gereon. 

"Old friends," Bastian said, but one look sent him away without even a goodbye to his dear old friends. 

Charlotte straightened up, cocking her head in interest. "Do you own this place?" she said with every manner of confidence. 

He laughed, deep and rumbling. "Yes, butterfly. What's your name? And your darling friend here?" A hand fell on Gereon's shoulder. The touch was far too intimate, the way an uncle may touch a beloved nephew. 

Charlotte's expression was of someone doing very fast and very complicated math. Her eyes darted towards his and he tried to convey his agreement with only blinks. 

"Lotte," she said finally, lips perking up into a charming smile. "And my friend." Her hand twined around his waist. Possessive. 

"My name is August," he rumbled. Gereon could not get a clear picture of him. His face was consumed by a thick beard, his eyes were small and hooded. "If you are here for fun, perhaps you'd like to avail yourself of a private room." 

Charlotte's finger dug into his side. Her smile did not waver. "Maybe we will. Thanks." 

August gestured towards the end of the club, an opening obscured by black curtains, like a path into a catacomb. He puffed on his cigar, the smoke curling and dispersing around his face like dragon's breath. 

They stood, Charlotte gripping his hand, pulling him with her. August watched them, or Gereon had the firm impression that he watched them, all the way to the back of the club. 

It was small and close, all the lights dimly red. He was reminded, unpleasantly, of his trip to the guts of Moka Efti with Bruno. Their quest to find Charlotte. 

"Here," Charlotte muttered, finding an empty room for them. It was depressing, the room entirely dominated by a bed draped in cheap faux velvet, all the lamps obscured by scarves and beaded shawls meant to make it feel intimate and exotic but only served to highlight the grubby, sad picture of a tiny, broken room with no windows and a sagging bed. 

_The beaded curtain drawn back, a half-naked woman. That room where Charlotte had turned tricks on her back, on her knees, however the client like it. However Bruno liked it._

Gereon pushed those thoughts away, almost physically, as he broke from Charlotte's grip. 

"Interesting, isn't it?" she said in a low, excited tone. She did not share his dark thoughts, clearly. 

"Yes, very," Gereon conceded. He didn't want to sit on the bed, knowing what probably happened there. "Whoever his boyfriend is... was, seems likely, doesn't he?" 

Charlotte tapped her chin. "Maybe. Just because he liked beating someone up in the bedroom doesn't mean he's gonna kill someone." 

"Why not? What's the difference?" 

The look she gave him was more than a touch defensive. Really, he could be such a fool sometimes. 

"Beating someone up who wants it is not the same as doing it to someone who doesn't want it," she said, giving him a look like he was the most old-fashioned, boring person on earth. 

"I suppose," he said, chastened. But really, she didn't need to tell him. He was still trying to distance himself from all of this. The depravity, the perversion that hid from the daylight. This was something he wasn't a part of, something he only observed from the sidelines. He couldn't really go on thinking that if Charlotte was a willing part of it. If he wanted it too... 

"I don't trust this August person," Gereon said, steering them away from that uncomfortable topic. 

"Me neither," Charlotte agreed. "He's new, it was someone else when I used to come here." 

Gereon swallowed thickly, rubbing his forehead. Some part of him was desperate to know what she was like when she came here, what she got up to. 

"The others," he said, pacing in the tiny space that would allow it. "Other murders?" 

"Maybe. I'll dive into the archive when we get back." 

"I'll help." He checked his watch. "Shall we go? Or try and talk to some others?" 

Charlotte shook her head. "Too suspicious. We should come back another night." 

Gereon had been fearing that. Another night of pretend, of Charlotte draping herself over him, poking him teasingly in the side. Another night pretending he didn't like it. 

"OK. Ready?" 

Her laugh filled the tiny room and she quickly stifled it with a hand. "Don't be silly, we've been here five minutes, not even. Even I don't think your stamina is that pathetic." 

The dim red light was good for something at least, Gereon thought, cheeks burning. "You think they'd notice?" he muttered, hands deep in his pockets to keep them from fidgeting. 

"August will," she said. "I can just tell." She perched on the sagging bed, lighting another cigarette, then patted the space right beside. "Come on, let's give it at least twenty minutes. Does that sound right for you?" Her tone was light, but her cheeky grin betrayed the joke. 

Gereon couldn't think of a response that wasn't defensive or awkward so he just said nothing and sat next to her, leaving plenty of space between them. He allowed her to light a cigarette for him and they sat in silence for a few minutes, time ticking by with agonizing slowness. 

"Have you found somewhere to live?" he asked presently, unable to stand the silence stretching between them. The last he knew, Charlotte had been living out of hostels. 

"A dorm for unmarried women," she said with grimace. "I try not to spend much time there." 

Gereon nodded, sympathizing. He'd gotten a new flat. Something small with one bedroom. He only needed the one bed since Helga... 

"Your sister," Charlotte said as thought reading his mind. "She's still in Berlin?" 

"Sister-in-law," he said with more ice in his tone than he truly meant. He caught Charlotte's eye and her smirk seemed to suggest that he hadn't needed to correct her. "Yes. She's still in Berlin. Not with me though." 

His gloom seemed to leech out into the room itself. Charlotte touched his hand, pulling him from the unpleasant memory. 

"Sorry," she said, all prior levity gone from her voice. He made himself look at her face. The dull light looked pink on her pale cheek, unnatural and strange, like her face was now a neon sign. Glittering eyes, shimmering lips, the elegant grace of her long neck. He had to look away. 

They smoked two cigarettes each and then called it a night. But as they stood to leave, Charlotte stopped him. "We can't leave with you looking like that, I have a reputation to maintain." 

Gereon froze as Charlotte assessed him. He stood still as a statue as her hands dug into his perfectly combed hair, messing it up into a bedraggled mess that he longed to correct. Not satisfied, Charlotte tugged at the knot of his tie, loosening it. She plucked open the first two buttons on his shirt, fingers brushing teasingly on his skin. She pulled open every button on his vest; when her hands were level with the front of his trousers, his breath caught tight in his throat like a trapped animal. But she only pulled out one side of his shirt from where it was tucked into the waistband, pinched awkwardly by his suspenders. She stood back half a step, assessing her work. But she wasn't done: from her purse she pulled that little tube of lipstick, pushing up its slick red tongue. She applied a fresh coat to her own mouth and then tipped her face up to his. 

He flinched, unprepared for her sudden closeness. She paused briefly, eyes sparkling, pupils dilated. But she leaned closer, holding him still by the knot of his tie. She pressed a sticky, red kiss onto the corner of his mouth, making sure to leave it smeared across his cheek. Then, though his heart seemed ready to burst from how hard it beat, she went for his exposed throat. She left a lipstick smudge there, right below his jaw. It seemed to burn like a brand despite how quick and light her lips had touched him. It seemed to glow. 

Charlotte stepped away, rubbing her mouth to smudge her lipstick further and then fluffing up her hair to make it disheveled before unbuttoning her blouse even more to reveal the smooth edge of her breastbone and the barest hint of lacy underthings. 

"Good enough," she said with a sigh, as though she really could have done better. 

"Not your usual thing?" Gereon said faintly, trying to sound as though she hadn't affected him at all. 

"One would think I roughed you up more," she said with that impish grin. "Left a few more marks." 

Gereon smiled, sharing in the joke. There was a part of him that wanted very badly to know the exact nature and placement of these marks, but he shoved it down. Keep it in the dark where it belonged. 

"Maybe next time," she said with a saucy wink that made his skin itch. 

"Let's go," he said, perhaps a little too shortly. 

She looked a bit scolded as they left the room, as though realizing she shouldn't have made that joke. Embarrassed. 

The next day found them in the archives. Gereon had gone home, tossed and turned in bed all night and woken up with a terrible headache. A shot of morphine kept his hands steady. Face washed, jaw shaved, hair combed, he bore no traces of his night with Charlotte. Which was a good thing, he told himself. 

She greeted him normally at the station. Cheerful and bubbly, a world away from the dirty underworld of Roter Hengst. 

But even Charlotte found it difficult to maintain all that good cheer surrounded as they were with dead or missing young men. There were piles of them going back years. It made Gereon feel ill. As Bastian had said, these kids didn't have rich families to make a stink at the police station. Some of them had no one at all. Many didn't even have names. 

The ones that interested them died by strangulation. Found in water. Ligature marks on the wrists and ankles. Young and male. There were two in the last few years that checked all the boxes. Jost Lewerenz and an unknown male. 

Charlotte placed their post-mortem photographs next to Benno's. "There's a resemblance," she said, cautiously. 

Gereon thought he saw it too. It was hard – bodies found in water were bloated and distended, features distorted. But all three had light-coloured hair. Slim builds. 

There was no address for Lewerenz or any kin, however, and the unidentified man had barely been investigated at all. Frustrated, Gereon tried to look up the detectives assigned to either of them, but they no longer even worked for the police. 

Gereon sighed deeply and pinched the bridge of his nose. He turned to look at Charlotte, chin in her hand, looking defeated as she said, "There's Roter Hengst." 

"Sure. We'll go again tonight. Uh, eleven?" 

Charlotte nodded, but she seemed to be lost in thought. 

After work, Gereon went down to the riverbank. Where some poor soul had found Benno floating like some massive fish. Discarded like trash. The lividity of the marks on his neck, wrists and ankles were visible even then. More so in the morgue, the stink choking them when they heard the sad details. 

And he thought of Charlotte. He didn't want to be thinking of her, especially here, especially in the way he was. There was an invisible thread between them, forged in lakewater and wrecked cars and the cold press of her mouth as he breathed for her, pushing the water from her lungs. He admired her because she was brave and clever and good at her job. She'd seen him at his absolute worst, shaking and convulsing on a dirty bathroom floor, and didn't judge him in the slightest. Comrades, their connection wrought by strife. 

That's what it should have been anyway. No question that Charlotte was lovely. Beautiful while dressed for a night out or in practical trousers for a day at the office. It shouldn't change anything, but it did. That he felt a careful tenderness for her, as he had so deeply while carrying her down that lonely road, had morphed their connection into something else entirely. Sometimes a lock of hair would fall across her cheek as she bent over a pile of police reports and he would long to brush it back. Feel her cheek under his hand again, only warm and alive and perfect. 

This nonsense at the club made it all the more complicated. Charlotte was a woman who wore her sexuality like it was one of the least interesting parts of her. Useful, yes, but nothing to be ashamed of, like the way she cut her hair or the shade of lipstick she preferred. The girls Gereon was used to, they liked to play the pious nun in public and keep all that dirty stuff behind closed doors. Nothing wrong with that, really, but Charlotte tossed those old-fashioned notions aside with casual defiance. He'd seen that back room in Moka Efti, where she slept with strangers for money. How it was just another job for her, like working the till at a shop. 

And this... whatever it was. Playing at pain, causing pain, receiving pain, all for fun. Whips and chains, and debasement. He'd seen worse, but never thought of it beyond just another facet of beautiful, glittering, depraved Berlin. Local colour. 

So he'd play at being her boy toy to catch whoever it was that squeezed the life out of Benno and perhaps the other boys, tossed them in the Spree like yesterday's trash. He could do that. He'd had to endure worse. 

That night, he put on one of his nicer ties and met Charlotte at the train station. She was dressed to go out this time, the thin crepe of her dress barely brushing her stockinged knees. Cheeks pink, lips dark red, she was vamped up in a way he so liked about women. How they could twirl around and be a different person if they wanted, lips lacquered and hair bobbed, a beautiful, mysterious stranger for the evening. 

"You look nice," he said, because it would be a shame for her to think her efforts weren't appreciated. 

"You too," she said sweetly, though he was sure he looked the same as ever. 

Off they went, down to the darkened cave of Roter Hengst, Charlotte on his arm. Or maybe he was on her arm. It certainly seemed like it from their little table, all the couple at their own tables, sometimes with a third. In various states of undress, chains and leather straps being popular accessories. This pretension, dressing up as perversion as though to shock any onlookers, wasn't to Gereon's taste. But that promise of something very silky and dark and delicious teased at him all the same. 

They greeted Bastian at the bar and got their drinks, but he wasn't inclined to join them this evening. It was clear why: August appeared beside them, like a predator closing in on its prey. 

"You look lovely this evening, butterfly," he said, kissing Charlotte's hand. "And you." He turned his hard gaze onto Gereon. "Ravishing." 

"Come have a drink with us," Charlotte ventured and he looked surprised. 

"It would be my pleasure." 

Gereon tightened his jaw. He didn't like August, certainly didn't trust him. He didn't like the feel of his presence. But they weren't really here to have fun. 

"Bastian tells me you used to come here before the change of ownership," August said once they were settled, cigarettes lit, August with his cigar. 

"Yes," Charlotte said. Her hand was on Gereon's thigh again. Very warm. "Long time ago." 

"Did you like to wear the chain or hold it, my dear?" he said frankly, unabashed by the intimacy of the question. Charlotte only looked vaguely surprised. 

"What do you think?" 

"I think you liked to hold it. Tug on it." He turned his attention to Gereon. "You like the collar, don't you?" 

Gereon didn't respond. Stared him down instead. His ears must be red, face warm. 

"Don't be coy," he said with humourless laugh. "We're all friends here." He spread his arms. 

Charlotte allowed a perfunctory little smile and sat closer to Gereon, her should touching his. 

"I'm surprised you came back at all," he said after a deep draft from his beer stein. 

"Oh really?" Charlotte said sweetly. She was looking at Gereon, hand trailing further up his leg as though it were far more interesting to touch him than talk to August. "Why's that?" 

"All your questions about this kid, Benno." 

Charlotte looked up, eyes glinting. "I didn't realize we asked a lot of questions. Did we?" She turned back to Gereon, expression amused. 

"I didn't think so," he said, shaking his head. 

"It's terrible, a patron of mine dying like that. It would be a terrible thing to end up in the papers." He was staring down both of them hard. 

"It would be unfortunate," Charlotte agreed, smoke curling from her nostrils as she took a casual pull from her cigarette. "I don't think that would happen. It would be so inconvenient for us, having nowhere fun to go at night, to blow off steam." 

August laughed, deep and loud. "Blow off steam, yes. You know, I can always tell when two of my patrons are desperate to run off and fuck each other. You, my darlings, have that look." 

Charlotte laughed and Gereon felt his face burn, his insides twisting. Her hand, so high on his thigh, squeezed. She pushed herself closer to Gereon. All for the pantomime of desire, of course. 

"Tell me, do you like to share?" August said, but before Charlotte could answer, he chuckled. "Bastian said as much." 

"Sometimes," she said with a demure smile. Gereon's mouth had gone very dry. "But my kitten," she pinched Gereon's cheek and the mark seemed to stay there, burning, "he's shy. Not up to being shared, are you, pet?" 

Gereon could only nod dumbly. He looked down at the table. It seemed the right thing to do, play at being bashful and shy. Not too difficult to manage at all. 

"I can understand," August rumbled. "I don't like to share either. Why don't you two run along now, yes?" 

Standing was a terrifying concept. Gereon wasn't sure his legs wanted to support him. He felt hot all over, skin prickled by Charlotte's closeness, her endearments and teasing comments. But August's eyes were like a slimy film sticking to him, dirty and uncomfortable. He stayed close to Charlotte, her small hand warm and comforting around his. 

They managed to find a room, different from the previous one but actually exactly the same in dimension and contents. It felt good to be in the dark. Hidden. 

"Sorry," Charlotte said in a small voice and it took him a moment to realize what she was meant to be sorry for. "He's creepy, isn't he?" 

"Yes," Gereon conceded. "Do you think he was Benno's boyfriend? Bastian seemed so concerned about telling us..." 

"Maybe," Charlotte said, tapping her chin again in thought. "I think –" 

Her next thought was interrupted by the door shaking, the doorknob turning. As if on instinct, Charlotte pushed Gereon down on the bed. He fell on his back, heavy on the creaky mattress, but before he could react, Charlotte was climbing on top of him, sitting with her legs astride his face. 

The door opened. Gereon couldn't move. Charlotte’s thighs were gripping him in a tight embrace. His heart pounded against his ribs, hard enough to shatter them. 

"Excuse me!" Charlotte shrieked. "I said we didn't want to share!" 

"Forgive me," came August's low, dark tones. "It seems I got turned around." 

"We're busy," Charlotte snapped. 

"Of course." He didn't sound the slightest bit sorry. 

Gereon was trying very hard to stay still. Charlotte's soft legs, so warm, intensely warm. He could feel the edge of her tap pants brushing his nose, silk and lace. He kept his eyes squeezed tight. He tried to pay attention to what August and Charlotte were saying, but it was so hard. 

"Please!" Charlotte said firmly, thighs tightening further around his ears. Gereon may have made a little sound, like a soft whimper. He hoped it was lost in the confines of Charlotte's skirt. "We're busy." 

August was chuckling but after a beat, Gereon heard the door shut and Charlotte eased off his face. He could breathe normally again, but as he sat up, Charlotte pressed a finger to her lips, pointing at the door. Afraid, apparently, that August would still be listening. 

"So sorry," she said softly, very close to his ear. "I just – panicked, it was the first thing I thought to do." 

"It's fine," he muttered, hand automatically going to smooth his hair, completely disheveled now. 

"Really?" Charlotte's eyes were huge in her face, as though she were truly concerned. He managed to scare up what he hoped was a placating smile. 

"Really," he said. He hoped that would be the end of it. They could both move on and forget it ever happened. 

If only she didn't notice the heat in his face, the tightness in his trousers. It was humiliating, but if only Charlotte would harness that humiliation. Take him in hand, give him something he was too afraid to ask for. The schnapps he had drunk earlier still had made his skin hot, his head fuzzy. Her face was still close to his – he could lean over and kiss her lips, feel that sweet, sticky glisten on his mouth again. Smear off her lipstick and taste the inside of her mouth. 

Instead, he turned away. Hunched over and ran a hand through his hair. He wasn't drunk enough for all that. 

They spent a long time in there, waiting out August, making their little rendezvous look real. Charlotte, still whispering, told him about the latest film she saw in the cinema. Gereon listened, but he couldn't seem to absorb any of it. Her voice washed over him, low and breathy, his ears tingling, and all down his spine. It felt like he would break apart, vibrate so fast that his bones would shatter. He closed his eyes. Listened to her. 

Sunday. Dawn crept through the curtains and poured herself across the floor. Gereon was awake to watch it happen. Smoking in bed, so gauche. Helga would have kicked him out for the balcony. 

Helga had been gone for a while now. But he could only think of Charlotte’s concern, the sincerity of her eyes in the dim light. He knew he had a habit of nursing his own wounds long after they were meant to have healed. Coddling them like misbehaving children. He was unable to put his foot down, let it go. 

Mass would start soon. He should be out of bed, dressed, hair combed. The idea of church, of confession, settled around him like an iron cage. Suffocating, imposing. He stubbed out the butt of his cigarette and sighed, leaning back. 

There was just something about a woman’s legs. He’d always thought so. As a schoolboy he was entranced by the hint of calf or ankle he was lucky enough to see. And then when he got to touch them. What bliss! Beyond a treasure, that permission to touch a girl on her bare leg. And after the war, when the hemlines just kept rising, Gereon might have been obsessed. Legs in sheer stockings, garters, delicate ankles. And during the war lots of women couldn’t afford the silk for stockings and they went bare. Some even kept with that tradition. 

Not Charlotte. Gereon closed his eyes and he could recall her legs pinching his face, the rough scrape of his stubble catching on the edge of her stockings. She wore old-fashioned garters to keep them up, not a newer garter belt. Better for dancing. The warm, powdery smell of her perfume. And her natural, womanly scent. Very strong between her legs. 

Gereon reached into his sleep pants to rub the head of his cock. He didn’t often indulge. Tried not to. Old habits, keeping himself pure for Sundays, hating himself whenever he confessed to self-abuse. He’d get so worked up, so desperate. He’d either succumb or have a desperate, frenzied tryst with Helga. They were always so desperate for each other. It felt that way at least. How easy it was to mistake lust for something more abiding. 

He wasn’t thinking about Helga at all when he gripped his cock, still trapped in his pajama pants so he wouldn’t have to look at, thoughts firmly on Charlotte. On her legs, clamped around his head. What if when August had closed the door, he had reach up into her tap pants, felt her all warm and wet on his fingers and then gone to taste her, completed the act they had been simulating. 

Of course he never would have. They were pretending. He would never do anything to her without asking first. But in the safe, secret, gossamer-smooth fantasy, he would. He would grip Charlotte by her delicious thighs and lick at her sweetness, drive her wild with his tongue, rub her until she was screaming his name and then, once he’d satisfied her, she could really rough him up. Show him what it meant to be her boy toy. 

There was no one around, but Gereon still bit his fist to keep from crying out when he came. Old habits. The aftermath of an orgasm was always the same when he did this. Pleasure draining away, that burning need replaced by shame. Not as much as he had felt in the past, but not entirely banished. And really, how disgusting to think of Charlotte, his colleague, when he did this. She deserved better. 

Sleep pants sticky and soiled, hands shaking only a fraction, Gereon got up. He stripped down in the bathroom and drew a bath. He didn’t need a church to get clean, he told himself, only a good hot bath. 

But as he sunk into the water, he didn’t feel clean. Not entirely, not at all. 

Come Monday, Gereon was determined to be as normal and not weird as possible. Easier said than done as soon as he saw Charlotte. He liked her in trousers, he thought when she greeted him. He always had. 

“I’ve been doing some research on our friend,” she said, sequestered in his office. He wished she wouldn’t sit on the edge of his desk like that, but he also didn’t want to tell her to stop. 

“Oh?” he said, divesting himself of all thoughts of her trousers as easily as taking off a raincoat. 

“August Reinhardt,” she said. “He got a citation for domestic violence in ‘22.” 

Gereon took the offered file from her hand. It was much easier to concentrate with something to focus on. “Very interesting,” he said, and Charlotte nodded. 

“I thought so. No idea what happened to the wife, but they did get a divorce not long after.” 

The gears were turning, clicking away. 

“Bruises on her wrists...” he sighed, disgusted. “And he doesn’t like to share.” 

“Hmm?” 

“What if Benno didn’t like that? Being his one and only? He wanted to branch out? August wouldn’t have been pleased.” 

Charlotte nodded. Her brow was creased, her eyes shiny. “Sad, isn’t it? Sex is supposed to be fun.” 

Gereon nodded. Apparently so. 

“So what’s the next move?” she continued. A little bit of that fire had returned, her spirit of adventure, that drive to investigate and poke around. 

“We go back to Roter Hengst, I suppose,” Gereon said. The idea was both terrible and appealing. 

It may have been his imagination or maybe Charlotte really did brighten up at the suggestion. “OK! Same time?” 

Gereon nodded. “It’s dangerous, though,” he heard himself say before he could stop himself. “This guy probably murdered more than just Benno.” 

“Don’t worry about me,” Charlotte said primly. She picked up her purse and produced a small, pearl-handled pistol. “I got it registered and everything.” 

He grinned, impressed but not very surprised. Not anymore. “You can use it?” 

Charlotte gave him a look. “Of course I can, I’m very good.” She held it up to aim for some imagined target. 

“Not in here!” 

“It isn’t loaded, calm down. I’ll pick up bullets before we meet up tonight.” 

She looked so pleased with herself and really, Gereon couldn’t help but admire her. He had to wonder how she did it. Up at all hours, nightclubs and dance clubs and sex clubs. Youth, he imagined, but also the cocaine that was so easy to obtain pretty much everywhere. Whatever made her happy, though. 

And Charlotte did look happy later that night, the spring green of her dress complimenting her eyes but not the atmosphere of the little gloomy club where only dark colours seemed to be welcome. But the red lights washed it all away anyway. Gereon tried not to stare at the seam of her stockings as he followed her down the stairs, up from her ankle and getting lost beyond her hem. All the secrets kept hidden there. 

It was getting easier to ignore all the other patrons. Kissing and necking and tugging at each other’s dog collars. But it was no easier to avoid August, a lion that had spotted a wounded antelope. He was beside them at the bar, Bastian melting away almost immediately when they got their drinks. 

“Back again,” he said with a chilly laugh. 

“Shouldn’t we be?” Gereon remarked mildly, annoyed at his persistent nature. 

“This is a particular club for particular tastes. You know, don’t you, butterfly?” He gestured to Charlotte with his cigar. 

“So?” she said, leaning away from his cloud of cigar smoke. 

“If you want to be boring and vanilla, there are dozens of clubs for you,” he said slickly and Charlotte bristled. 

“Do you spy on the rooms?” 

“I can’t help what I overhear,” he said airily. “Or what I don’t overhear. Very thin walls.” 

Charlotte’s expression was poison. She downed her shot and grabbed Gereon by the knot of his tie. “Come along, kitten.” 

There was no other choice but to follow, as though he wore the same dog collar as the patron at the nearest table and Charlotte held the leash. He didn’t mind the idea so much, posed like that. 

Almost as soon as Charlotte shut the door to their private room, she giggled into her hand. “He’s such an ass,” she whispered and Gereon nodded. “Best to keep him happy and off our backs, don’t you think? Better for poking around.” 

“So what do you suggest?” 

That delightful impish grin was back and Charlotte crouched by the bed, pulling out a wooden box from under it. Inside were all manner of whips and chains, phalluses and other toys. Charlotte produced a long wooden paddle and Gereon merely blinked at her. 

“Oh, you look spooked,” she said with a giggle. “Don’t worry, I won’t hit you.” She pushed the box back under the bed and gave the mattress a hard thwack with the paddle. Then another. 

“Yeah, you like that? You little bitch?” Charlotte called out between spanking the poor mattress, loud enough for the whole club to hear. “Take it!” But with the next smack, she couldn’t contain her giggles and needed to clamp a hand over her mouth to silence them. 

Gereon had an easier time suppressing his mirth, but he couldn’t help grinning at how ridiculous it was watching Charlotte discipline the mattress. With no small amount of childish glee, Gereon got on the bed and started shaking it side to side so that it squeaked and shuddered and hit the wall. 

“Please!” he wailed dramatically. “Harder!” 

Charlotte was doubled over now, laughing as silently as she could. She rolled on the bed too, bouncing up and down. She giggled so hard into her hand that she snorted, and they both laughed harder. Rolling on the bed, colliding together where the mattress dipped in the middle. Somehow, Charlotte was half on top of him, body still shaking with suppressed giggles. He felt very drunk somehow, even though he’d only had one shot. But the weight of Charlotte against him made him feel more than drunk. 

His hand lay against her cheek. She was so warm. He brushed her hair aside, enough so that he could look at her face better, see her joyful expression. It all mellowed before his very eyes, humour melting away as she looked at him. He didn’t want to imagine how he must be looking at her, with all the soppy romance of a schoolboy. 

To stop her looking at him, he kissed her. It seemed to make sense at the time. It made a lot of sense, really: the warmth of her mouth, the taste of her lipstick. Her body slid over his like it was made to be there, pinning him to a broken mattress in a grimy sex club. Gereon grabbed her hips, the thin crepe of her dress rough under his fingers. Perfume filled his senses. Rose and lilac and lily of the valley. She bit his lip, a hard, sudden pain that made him moan. 

“Sorry,” she whispered, pulling away. She must have thought she hurt him. Hurt him in a way he didn’t like. 

There were so many things he wanted to say. Wanted to ask for. Beg for. But it was hard with her looking at him with her large, liquid-looking eyes, her lips pink and swollen from kisses. She softly touched his face. He grabbed her hand, kissed it. He could only speak to her with his eyes closed. 

“Rough me up,” he bit out, hips shifting restlessly against her. “Please.” He sounded broken even to himself. 

“Gereon,” Charlotte whispered. The unsurity in her voice pained him more than her bite had. 

“Lotte,” he pleaded, dignity melting away. _“Please.”_

She kissed him again. Slow, but firm. Her teeth tugged at his bottom lip and he whined. She kissed his jaw, his neck. Instead of a soft brush of lips leaving only a smudge of lipstick behind, she sucked hard at the fragile skin of his throat. He warped under the intensity of the pleasure that shot through him, pushing up against her body. She was straddling him now, pressing him down to the bed. He ran his hands up her thighs, feeling for the edge of her stockings. 

But he'd asked for rough, and Charlotte was being rough. She grabbed his wrists, pinned them to the mattress and held them firm next to his hips. He could have easily broken her grip. But he didn’t want to. How delicious, to totally submit to her control. Sucking and nipping at his throat, she left what were sure to be dark hickeys and love bites. She had to release one of his wrists in order to tug free his tie and the buttons of his vest and shirt. His own hand stayed obediently where she had held it. 

Clothing free, she could push up his undershirt and kiss the bare skin there. Hickeys for the skin under his collar bone, around his nipple, down lower towards his navel. Gereon couldn’t help but squirm. She licked at the trail of hair disappearing into his trousers. His hips wanted to buck, relieve some of the intense pressure in his groin, his cock hard and trapped uncomfortably in his underwear. Charlotte squeezed his wrists, holding him down securely. 

“You like that?” The question sounded so different now. It wasn’t a joke, or for pretend, or for the benefit of anyone who happened to be listening. It was a low-pitched, intimate whisper. He nodded tightly, throat stuck together. 

In answer, she leaned forward and bit his shoulder. Hard enough to leave a mark, surely. Gereon couldn’t help but moan, hands twisting under their confinement. His clothed cock was pressed snugly up between her legs. If she continued, he was going to come like that, in his trousers, rucking up against her. 

“Wait,” he breathed, and Charlotte froze at once. 

She released his wrists, easing off him slightly. But he only took her by the hips, turned them gently over so that she was on her back. He kissed her, unable to help himself. A hard, searing slickness on his mouth. He pulled up her skirt, watching her face for discomfort, but she only lifted her hips, helped him tug off her tap pants. Peach satin, trimmed in lace and ribbons. Her stockings were black, her garters ruffled. He kissed up from one ankle, licking at that delightful seam and then to the tops, actually groaning as it gave way to smooth skin. Charlotte giggled, ticklish perhaps, or maybe he looked that ridiculous with his shirt gaping open, cock hard in his trousers as he sucked at the skin of her thigh. He found he didn’t mind either way. 

Between her beautiful legs, Charlotte was more delicious than he had imagined. Wet, slick, hot. He felt for her reactions at her licked at her, flicking her clit with his tongue and moaning unabashedly as her thighs squeezed briefly around his head. 

“Gereon!” she yelped, one hand twisting in his hair. Her hiccupping moans were the most beautiful music. Better than an angel's song. 

He could have spent forever there, tongue inside her, her heels legs hooked over his shoulders. But then Charlotte was gasping, thighs shaking as she arched her back and pulled even harder at his hair. She pushed him gently away, overwhelmed and too sensitive when she was finished. Gereon could only pant with his cheek burning hot against her thigh. He had come in his trousers after all. 

But as he raised his head, found it didn’t bother him. Charlotte’s face was glowing pink, hair in fluffy ringlets that stuck to her cheeks as she cupped his face in her hands. He raised his face to kiss her, still bent in glorious supplication to her, looking like a pagan goddess on a bed of rosebuds instead of a broken old mattress that had seen thousands of depraved sex acts. 

He murmured her name when they broke apart. He was coming back to himself in a hurry, suddenly horribly aware of who they were and who they were pretending to be and where they were doing it. 

“Gereon,” she said softly, soft enough that no one could overhear, a gentle whisper just for him. “It’s OK.” 

Well, if she said so. He was still a little shaky, a little boneless, skin humming with endorphins. He sat up, surveying himself and the mess he had made in his trousers with disgust. Charlotte was still close by, rubbing his cheek with the palm of her hand. 

“Don’t worry about it,” she said. His head fell on her shoulder. Comforted by her closeness. 

Maybe, in the cold light of day, they’d have to have a conversation about this. He didn’t want to in the moment. They sat like that for what felt like ages, Charlotte rubbing his back, his cheek, Gereon clinging to her like she might slip away. It didn’t feel like they could get close enough. 

It was getting very late. Gereon had been about to fall asleep on Charlotte’s shoulder when she shook him. He rubbed his face, checked his watch. He felt disgustingly sober. He longed to be clean. 

“Let’s go,” she said, promise in her whispered voice. The promise of going home together. 

Gereon still felt like a mess, but he supposed he was supposed to look that way. They fixed their clothes, just enough to be decent, and left. There weren’t many patrons left. Retired to their own private rooms, perhaps. 

“Just a minute,” Charlotte said, her mouth very close to his ear, still with its ability to make him shiver. “I need to freshen up first.” 

He nodded, watched her go. He wished she wouldn’t. He leaned against the bar to wait for her, looking around for Bastian, who was nowhere in sight. Exhausted, but Gereon needed a drink. Something to kill the nasty thoughts that were already threatening to invade. Their relationship had been so _nice_. Strong, healthy, professional. He’d ruined everything. There was cold sweat inside his rumpled clothes. Sobriety was a revolting state. 

As if by magic, a drink appeared at his elbow. 

“You look tired, kitten,” came a deep voice. 

Gereon looked up. August, bowtie hanging loose. 

“It’s on me,” he said with a flourish. 

Well, Gereon wasn’t known to make the best decisions. Even he knew that. The schnapps went down with a delicious, familiar burn. Anything to stop the hideous regrets. He wanted Charlotte back, to take her by the hips and bury his face between her thighs. But even as those thoughts swam through his brain, he felt dizzy. Far too dizzy too soon for only one shot. He grabbed clumsily for the edge of the bar. Found August there instead. 

“There, there, kitten. I’ve got you.” 

He’d been here before. Coming-to, feeling sick and dizzy, arms and feet bound. The memory reeled within him and he tried to scream. But he couldn’t, jaw going slack and nothing coming out but a faint gurgle. 

“Hush, darling.” 

There was a hand on his forehead, hideously clammy. 

“Wake up.” 

Gereon struggled to move. His wrists were tied to something above his head, but he lay horizontal. 

_“Wake up!”_

Backhanded with a sharp crack. Gereon shouted in shock and pain, yet still unable to get away. But he forced his eyes open, taking in his blurry surroundings. August. A bed. Ropes binding his wrists to the bedframe. His ankles, too, bound. He was stripped to his waist, trousers unbuttoned, suspenders hanging loose. 

“Oh, kitten. Lotte has already been a bit rough with you, I see.” His huge hand trailed over Gereon’s bare chest and he flinched in revulsion. Those love bites she had left on his skin, the ones he had begged her for. They were only for her to admire. August was leering at him, eyes glinting with menace. 

“You fucking... you killed Benno...” he groaned, words still slurred and gummy in his mouth. 

August shrugged. 

“Those other boys? What were their names?” 

He didn’t respond, looking annoyed now. “Shut up. We’re not here to talk about them. I’m here for you, pet. Only you. So selfish of Lotte not to share.” 

Gereon tried, in vain, to lurch away, but the ropes only bit into his wrists. 

“Why struggle? You like it rough, don’t you? With her? Why not with me?” 

It was such a stupid question, Gereon couldn’t even begin to answer. “You sick... son of bitch...” 

August merely chuckled at that. There was a scratch and a sizzle, his match flaring up bright enough to hurt Gereon’s eyes. He lit his cigar, blowing a plume of smoke in Gereon’s face. “You stupid, stupid boy,” August said rather sadly. “I could have given you so much.” 

He held the burning ember of the cigar against Gereon’s bare chest, right next to his nipple. He smelt the burnt flesh before he felt the pain and then he was howling, fighting uselessly to get away. August laughed sadistically. He removed the cigar, the pain not relenting at all – worsening, really – and slapped him hard again. Gereon tasted blood, ears ringing. 

“You’re all mine now though, aren’t you?” August crooned, kneeling on the bed as he unbuttoned his shirt. Gereon spit blood onto the pillow and tried to swallow the intensity of his panic. 

He could fall away from all of this. Slip into the grip of his fear and not feel a thing. Lurch backwards into the past. He squeezed his eyes shut, the sound of August fumbling with his clothes growing louder rather than fainter as he so wished. 

But there was a crash. And then an ear-shattering bang. So loud that Gereon flinched, unconsciously covering his face with his elbows, the only part of himself he could move properly. Had he really slipped that far back? Into the war where gunshots whizzed past him and exploded in his ears, the constant, _constant_ fear of shells drilling a hysterical hole right through his intestines? 

But then someone was gently shaking his arm, calling his name. 

“Gereon? It’s OK, it’s me.” 

He managed to open his eyes, see Charlotte above him. She cut his wrists free with her little pocket knife. She helped him sit up as he gasped for air like a drowning fish. His hands were shaking badly. She got to work freeing his ankles. 

“What’s wrong with him?” 

That was Bastian at the door, looking pale and frightened and much like a scared little boy despite his gaunt appearance. 

“Nothing. Go get some bandages. Now!” 

Bastian scurried away. 

“Do you have your morphine?” Charlotte said to him, gentle and stern. He could only nod. It was in his coat pocket, but he had no idea where that was. 

But Charlotte had always been clever and resourceful. She found his coat and the morphine pouch tucked in the pocket and then she was helping to pour it in his mouth. He needed two doses this time. Just like that first time. 

At last, he could speak again. His hands were steady. Charlotte had found his shirt, helped him into it. He could see now: August slumped over in the corner, clearly dead, the bullet hole in his chest no longer spurting out blood. His dark eyes were glassy. 

“Nice shot,” he muttered shakily. 

“I told you I was good,” she said with a tiny smile, some of her usual charm. He attempted to return the smile, his lips twitching. 

Bastian had returned with some bandages. 

“Is there a telephone?” she asked him, winding it tight around Gereon’s chest and the horrible cigar burn. He hissed as it chafed the tender flesh. 

“A phone? You need a phone?” 

“For the police.” 

“Lotte, you can’t call the police,” Bastian muttered, horrified. 

“We are the police,” she said tartly and Bastian looked utterly stricken. “Well?” 

There was a phone after all. There were police and questions and still more questions. In the death of a clear degenerate like August, perhaps they wouldn’t have asked so many questions anyway. But Charlotte had explained a clear case of self-defense. 

Gereon had been answering questions for hours. The morphine dulled everything, kept his hands steady, but he still felt ill and exhausted. They left out just enough not to embarrass them both. Bastian sobbed desperately in interrogation, about Benno and Jost and the other boy, Felix his name was. How August was close with all of them, how they all turned up dead. Blah blah blah. Gereon was sick at the sight of him. 

He leaned heavily against the wall, the room tilting slightly. It was past three in the morning. He hadn’t eaten since lunch. The burn on his chest throbbed dully. A small hand slid over his arm and he looked up at her blurrily. 

“Let’s get you home,” Charlotte said gently. 

“OK.” 

They found a cab and Gereon gave directions to his flat. Charlotte never left his side, kept herself tucked close under his arm. She helped him climb the stairs. He was so tired, he thought his bones would break. 

In his room, she sat him down on the bed. She helped him out of his clothes, stripped down to his shorts. Charlotte disappeared into the bathroom to raid his medicine cabinet and Gereon could have fallen asleep right then and there. But she poked him back awake, unwrapped the old bandage and cleaned the burn with some hydrogen peroxide. 

“Shh, it’s OK,” she cooed gently as he hissed at the sting. She applied another bandage, sticking it down with tape. “Good as new,” she said and tired as he was, he couldn’t miss the slight quaver in her voice. 

He reached out, cupped her warm cheek. Her eyes were enormous in her pale face, sparkling. 

“My fault,” she said thickly, a glistening tear sliding down her face. He brushed it away with his thumb. 

“No,” he said. “You saved me.” 

“You saved me first.” 

He smiled and she threw her arms around his neck. He grunted at the shock to his tender body, but pulled her close all the same. The smell of her hair grounded him. Made him feel safe. 

They laid there, curled up together, Charlotte’s head on his good shoulder. He hadn't been sure how he would fall asleep, dead tired as he was, but Charlotte in his arms was better than any vial of morphine. 

It felt impossible, waking up to a stripe of daylight falling across his face and Lotte still snuggled up in his bed. She looked lovely, waking up and rubbing her eyes, hair a mess. 

“Are you OK?” she said in a soft whisper. Just for him. 

He nodded. 

She looked down at his chest, the burn August had left still covered by the bandage. That old scar left by Bruno’s gun. And at everything else, the love bites she had left. Her fingers traced one of them, cheeks pink. “You really wanted me to?” 

Another version of Gereon wouldn’t have known what to say. He would have been embarrassed, ashamed. And though he felt those feelings, lessened, distant, he could push them aside. “Yes,” he said. “Absolutely.” 

Charlotte grinned, biting her lip. “I think we should stay in bed today. I think we should stay in bed for the rest of our lives.” She laughed, snuggled closer to his side, even as her stomach gave a pronounced growl. 

“Breakfast in bed sounds nice,” he agreed, stroking her hair. 

He’d get it for her. He’d do anything for her. In a little while. 


End file.
